Grey
by KittyCare
Summary: The Kings always win the games. It's expected. It's an honor. Grey King volunteers at age seventeen, just as she is supposed to. However, the journey she takes over the course of the 78th Annual Hunger Games won't only change her, but also the history and tradition of District Two, forever.


**So, my first fanfic! It is set in the Hunger Games world, but the rebellion never happened and Twelve was never destroyed. Enjoy :) **

When I wake, District Two is blanketed in white.

I sit up in bed, smoothing the rich cotton sheets under my fingers. I can see the crystals of frost climbing across the window pane. A warm breath melts the jagged fingers and beads into drops of moisture, which slide down to the wooden sill.

Today is the day of the Reaping, and I am going to volunteer.

I have to. I want to. I'm scared. I'm excited. It's not like I have a choice – it is expected of the King family, for the eldest to volunteer at age seventeen. Generation after generation, we have lied, cheated, bribed and crippled others to guarantee us as District Two's only tributes. The past few years were won by other families, although none were as influential as ours. But not this year. This year, the burden of being tribute is solely mine.

King. A perfect surname for a conceited, corrupted family.

I hear feet on the polished floorboards and look away from the icy window to the doorway. A single blue eye peers back at me, framed by several locks of long blonde hair. Another, smaller head appears below it, nearly identical except for a few freckles splashed across the bridge of the narrow nose. The twins, Astrid and Isolde, are both eleven, six years my junior. They have been inseparable since birth, despite the fact they don't particularly like one another. The huge, empty hallways of King's Manor are almost always filled with whispered insults and quiet exclamations of pain following a dull smack. The fact that they aren't even nudging each other violently is a strange sight. I kick away the blankets and swing my feet off to the floor, wincing at the cold contact.

"Hey, guys," I say softly. I can't hear my father and mother sparring, so they must still be asleep. I don't want to incur their wrath by waking them up. Having two victors as parents tends to make a strange childhood.

Astrid, the taller twin, is older by three minutes. She steps out from behind the doorway, Isolde following in her shadow. She studies me silently for a moment with luminous blue irises before uncrossing her arms and grabbing one of my hands in her two small ones. Isolde follows suit, grasping my other hand.

"Good luck in the games, Grey," Astrid whispers lowly. She leans over to brush a kiss across my shoulder, bare under my white tank top. The unexpected contact tingles. "You'll win. You have to."

"Grey," Isolde whispers. I turn to gaze at her. "You'll come back to us. Don't worry." She squeezes my fingers briefly.

By some unspoken command, the twins release my hands simultaneously and spin to disappear out the door, leaving me silent behind. The twins aren't ones for outward displays of affection. No one is, in the King family. Even a simple "good luck" can raise an eyebrow. I touch my shoulder where Astrid kissed my skin. For a moment, just a few precious seconds, we were like normal siblings. I want to feel it again, but they're gone.

I get dressed quickly, with no thought of finery. I should get some leniency – after all, I am the one who has to go and slaughter other teens in a few days. I can wear what I want. Black pants and coats are all the Capitol is getting out of me. I do make one concession by wrapping a red scarf around my neck. After that, I just tie my hair into a ponytail and take off on silent boots to the kitchen. Hoping that it is empty proves fruitless – my mother sits at the long, wrought iron dining table. Her large hands curl almost elegantly around a steaming cup. She stares out to her right, out the arching glass window, with a thoughtful look on her face. The picture doesn't look complete until I spot the knife by her hand and the sword leaning against her chair. My mother, Haylee King, was the victor of the 49th Hunger Games when she was fifteen. She won by sticking with the Career Pack until there was barely anyone left, then slaughtering the Careers in their sleep. Her victory came with a price – a massive scar arcs from her chin, across her neck, to the opposite shoulder. According to the whispers I've overheard at our family's annual Christmas celebration, she is still beautiful. The scar makes her strong. A fighter. I suppose she is an attractive woman, even at forty-four. Her blonde hair, cropped in a sharp pixie cut, sometimes obscures her deep blue irises. The twins look like her, especially Astrid, who has the same solid frame. I, on the other hand, take after my father. Justus King was the victor of the 45th Hunger Games when he was fourteen. He won by brute force, killing almost everyone on the first day in a crazy berserker rage. He hunted down the rest of the tributes on the second day, making it one of the shortest Games in history. Our form is deceptive – we both have tall, lean, tan bodies with the strength of many and dark brown hair, the same narrow nose, the same large eyes. But while his eyes are black, mine are a bright golden yellow. The color is the one thing that keeps me from despising my face the same way that I despise my father.

I walk quietly past my mother, snagging some fruit from a platter and a knife. I cut a chuck of bread from the loaf on the counter before continuing out the kitchen in one swift move. I'm almost into the hallway before my mother calls after me.

"Grey."

Her voice exudes regality, even in saying my one syllable name. I sigh, and turn on my heel to return to the table. Stuffing a bite of bread into my mouth, I stand behind her and wait for her to speak again. This is how it always is in our family – training to be victors, respect for elders, and upholding family honor as tributes. When I was younger, I would see families in the streets through a window. They would laugh and hold hands, smiling at each other and at the world, safe through the knowledge that only the Kings would be tributes. Their children and babies were safe as long as the Kings were there, the shield against the cruelty of the games. It used to give me a hollow, aching feeling in my chest. Now, it only makes me disgusted.

My mother is silent. I stare at the back of her head and swallow the dry bread. We sit in silence for a moment longer, before she finally stands. The chair rattles against the floor, and she disregards her weapons and dishes, leaving them on the table. As she walks away, she finally speaks.

"Good luck in the Games."

She disappears through a doorway without another word, leaving me alone with the remains of her breakfast in the empty kitchen.

The next few hours pass in a blur. At one, I head down separately from mother and father. Isolde is perched on my back and Astrid holds my hand, tromping along in heavy black snow boots. Attendance is mandatory for everyone in the District, no matter the age. While I am waiting in the crowd, the four of them will stand by as spectators. The Justice Building is just as imposing as ever, looming charcoal-grey against the white sky. Heavy, fat snowflakes twirl down from the clouds above, settling against my face where they melt and slip into my collar. I catch a few glimpses of Astrid tilting her chin back with her small pink tongue out, but she quickly sobers up when she thinks I see her. As we trudge closer to the town square, my stomach constricts tighter and tighter with every footfall. I don't know why I'm so nervous. I keep telling myself that I've trained my whole life for this, but it doesn't help loosen the knot in my stomach. Once I catch sight of the registration booth, I swing Isolde off my shoulders and set her down silently. She casts one more lingering gaze on my face. Her blue eyes seem stormy and dark, reflecting the sky above. Unexpectedly, she swoops in for a quick hug around my neck while Astrid squeezes my hand tightly. Then, before I can register what happened, they scamper off together into the growing crowd.

My mother's good luck wish. My sister's gestures of comfort. Today is definitely strange. I stay kneeling for a moment until I feel people's eyes on me, wondering why the King girl is on the ground. I stand with as much dignity as I can muster, and with my chin held high, walk over to the registration booth.

Time begins to blur again once everyone is checked in. I stand dazed among the other seventeen year olds, ignoring their subtle glances in my direction. Most of the girls exude relief and confidence, knowing they won't be picked for the Games. Not a single look of gratitude flashes across their smug faces. The boys are not so calm. I spot many crossing their legs like they have to pee. The District Two escort smiles from behind the mayor in her bright Capitol clothes and makeup, all garish pastel shades. I think her name is Drusilla. My hearing, muffled throughout the mayor's speech and the Capitol film, finally clears when she teeters up between the two glass balls on her spiked heels. It is so silent in the clearing that we can hear every click of the points on the stone platform.

"Happy Hunger Games!" she exclaims, all white teeth and yellow wig. He eyes shine blue from behind heavy pale green eye shadow. "Oh, this is my favorite part," she sighs lightly. "Ladies first, as always!" Her pale hand reaches into the glass ball. Swirls around the folded paper slips. Her long pink nails brush one or two. She finally snatches up one and jerks it out of the bowl like it might try to escape. Suddenly, my writhing stomach calms and my breathing settles. I try to fold my lips together to contain a sudden hysterical smile. Whoever gets picked, whichever name is drawn out of that bowl, it won't matter. I will save them. I will volunteer and tighten the noose over my own neck. I have to. The thought calms me, and I tilt my chin up proudly.

Drusilla clicks back to the microphone and purses her lips into a pink bow while she struggles to unfold the slip. Impatiently, she flicks it open with a small ripping sound. The furrow between her brows clears and she smiles.

"Hm." She clears her throat into the microphone and with a clear voice, reads out "Tura Myers." I see a brunette jerk in the crowd, then relax and turn to look at me. Obviously, she expects me to volunteer and save her. She isn't worried in the slightest. A small, smug smile curls her mouth. Obviously, she isn't grateful in the least. With an inward laugh, I decide to play her a little bit. Instead of instantly volunteering, I stare her down with expectant eyebrows and silent lips. Even though I only waste one or two seconds, it's enough for her confidence to dissolve and her red mouth to start shuddering. Her brown eyes fill with terror.

I shoot one last mocking glance at her, memorizing the perspiration marking her forehead with shame, before lazily stepping out of my section with a little two finger salute towards the stage.

"I volunteer as tribute," I say, and smile.

**Reviews would be amazing! I would love to get feedback too. Don't be afraid to be blunt :) Tell me if I should continue or not.**

**-Kat**


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